


In Which Lestrade Has Observation Powers of his Own (Or, "I Think Lestrade Filmed You on His Phone")

by juxtapose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:26:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtapose/pseuds/juxtapose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock through the eyes of someone you may not have known was really watching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Lestrade Has Observation Powers of his Own (Or, "I Think Lestrade Filmed You on His Phone")

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Okay! Never written for Lestrade before, and I rarely write in first person to begin with, so here goes. Constructive criticism is welcome. I'd also like to thank Danielle for reading this over for me as always. (: Disclaimer: I own nothing!

You know, there’s a reason I got into all this. Detective work, I mean. My mum always said, “Greg, whatever you choose to do with your life, you’ve got to make sure it’s what you love.” And I always knew I wanted to do this.

It’s the people. People, and what you can find out about them, in their little quirks and in their motivations. People will do anything for anything, I always say. Bloody fascinating.

I mean, I had to _work_ my way up to this, y’know. Work hard for it. Lots of training and years on the force and yeah, it’s a hell of a lot of work despite what people might think.

Despite what a certain Sherlock Holmes might think.

Oh, I know: Rude and entitled and a complete arse? That’s just how he _is_. And it’s all well and good when he can help out with a case I can’t seem to wrap my head around. Does he _have_ to be so cocky about it? No. Just an added bonus.

Anyway, yeah, that’s Sherlock Holmes over there, the Great Consulting Detective (I know. He made up the name himself. I told him he had to have an actual _license_ to call himself a detective, but does he ever listen to me?). He’s yammering on as usual, peering over Janie Larson’s body (25, engaged, blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Poor girl). Next to him’s the blogger, John Watson. Nice bloke. And to me, the way the two of them interact is a reminder of why I love this job.

People. They surprise you, when you really notice them.

See, I’ve known Sherlock for a long time, and until about a year ago when he met John, I’d never seen him even remotely close to _calm_ for more than maybe five seconds. He’s constantly on the move, constantly bloody _talking_ ; just looking at him sometimes gives me sodding anxiety. 

But when John’s around, it’s like playing a movie in slow-mo, y’know? It’s like the tension everywhere around Sherlock, practically radiating _off_ him, seems to quiet to a buzz, and John will put his hand on Sherlock’s arm or something and he’ll just be . . . calmer.

Like right now. While I’ve been ordering around the CSI guys, Sally—Sergeant Donovan, I mean—is practically at her wit’s end with Sherlock who’s been rattling on and on about what a poor job Scotland Yard does at solving crimes (You’re probably wondering why I don’t take offense. I did the first hundred times or so, but now it seems like an off day if Sherlock _isn’t_ insulting the police force). I was just about to go intervene, but there’s John, leaning up all quiet-like and whatever he says to Sherlock is enough to make him stop in mid-sentence.

Who would’ve thought, right? John Watson, your average bloke, ex-army doctor, can bring the mind of the great Sherlock Holmes to a comfortable lull.

I wait til they’ve had their little moment before shuffling over to them, and Donovan says with a sigh of relief, “The Freak’s all yours, sir,” before stalking off. Yeah, she and Sherlock never really got on. Donovan’s hard-headed to begin with; stick her in a room with Sherlock and it’s a whole new level of Not Good.

I nod to Sherlock. “Got anything for me?” I ask.

And, as he always does, Sherlock says, “Of course. I’ve come up with about six different possibilities as to who murdered this girl, but once we talk to the fiancé I’m sure those will be narrowed down . . . “

I hadn’t even told Sherlock the victim was engaged. She isn’t even wearing a ring. Why am I even surprised he knows this?

“I’ll let you know when he’s in for questioning,” I say.

Sherlock is already walking away. “Text me. Come along, John.” And John nods to me, and I nod to him, and it’s this sort of unspoken communication between us where I’m basically telling him _Thank you for keeping him even remotely close to in-line today_ and he’s telling me _Sure thing, mate_.

I watch them walk away. Two peas in a pod, those two. Sherlock’s this weird enigma no one can figure out, and yet there’s John Watson bumping shoulders with him and breaking into the widest grin I’ve ever seen when Sherlock says something apparently funny.

(Key word: apparently. Sherlock’s sense of humor is lost on me sometimes. Mostly because he’s barely got one.)

Anyway, John’s laughing, and Sherlock’s looking down at him all smiles, and it’s the most real emotion I’ve seen from him. Honest. Bloody hell, they almost need to get a room.

I find myself smiling a little too.

People surprise you.

** * * *

“Greg, mate, he’s gonna hate you for this.”

“Who says he has to know? Can you think of all the blackmail possibilities?”

I’m waving my mobile around in front of a very drugged up Sherlock Homes’ face. It’s been established well enough that with some rest he’ll be fine, so what’s the harm in having a little fun?

Sherlock is grinning like a madman (which says a lot considering he _is_ , in essence, a bloody madman). He’s got one arm slung around John’s shoulders and the other around mine. I’d come down with some of the team; there’s been a whole mess with a couple of CIA agents and this mysterious Woman who got away. Took a few statements and now it seems the remainder of my time here is making sure this great bloody oaf gets a cab home. Initially we could barely keep him awake long enough to lift him up, but now, well. He's back to his usual self in that he won't shut up.

“The Woman—where’d she—Lestrade, stop being useless and find—this jacket suits you, John.”

Oh, this is priceless. _Priceless_. I’ve still got my mobile recording the whole of this, hoping like hell I’ll be able to use it against this cheeky bastard one day.

“John,” he slurs on, and I watch as he tilts his head to face the doctor’s, “John-john-john-d’you know how bloody _fantastic_ you really are?”

“Oh, Christ,” John mutters, but I can see him smiling, he’s pretty shite at hiding it. Sherlock keeps grinning and sort of presses his face into John’s neck and I’m really starting to feel like a third wheel at this point. 

(If John’s blushing neither of us say anything about it.)

“C’mon now, Sherlock,” John says with the patience of every theoretical higher power in the world, “Try and walk, yeah? You need to sleep this off.”

Between the two of us we manage to carry him down the hallway and toward the door. Sherlock talks the whole time, and I have to say I capture some pretty quotable moments. When we’re finally outside, Sherlock flings both his arms around John’s shoulders and I say, “Should I give you two a lift, then, so you don’t have to hail a cab?”

“That would be brilliant,” John sighs.

So I drive them back to Baker Street, and if Sherlock rests his head on John’s shoulder and sings a strangely in-key rendition of “God Save the Queen”, and if John sort of wraps a protective arm around his shoulders and grins, I don’t say a damn thing.

This is a side of Sherlock I’ve never really seen before. The very vulnerable side. I can’t help but catch a few glances in the rear view mirror at John, who doesn’t seem at all phased by any of this. It strikes me again (like it has quite a lot) how very different these two are, and how they somehow found their way to each other and stayed there. Like a bloody romance flick if you ask me.

Sherlock is explaining the laws of physics to John in a very high-pitched voice. John is laughing.

People are funny.

* * * * *

I’m at the pub near the station. Seems like I spend most of my time there these days. The wife and I are separated again, and we’re a few papers away from a divorce. I’m not sure if I’m so surprised, what with everything else going on. I slipped away from her long ago, and she from me. Bound to happen, right?

Three months ago today, Sherlock Holmes jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital. As you can probably imagine, everything went downhill from there.

I can’t tell you how many phone calls and e-mails I’ve gotten, asking how I could have trusted a fraud, trying to get information about all the cases slowly but surely being reopened in question of their legitimacy. Our headquarters are under constant scrutiny; the Chief Superintendent is on my back in every bloody move I make.

Was he a liar, you ask? I don’t think so. Maybe I’d be second-guessing him now, resenting all he’s putting me through, if it weren’t for the bloke entering the pub right now.

“John Watson,” I say in greeting, “You look awful.”

He smiles grimly. “Thanks. You too.”

We meet up once a week, now. ‘Cause even though neither of us would really admit it, we haven’t much else to do. No place else to go. And we’re the only two people in the world who understand it. How we were the planets orbiting around the obnoxiously bright sun that was Sherlock Holmes, If you’ll pardon my horrible attempt at metaphor.

We’re all out of orbit now. All out of sorts.

I order John a drink, and for a little while we sit in silence, like usual. It’s not awkward or anything. It’s a silence of recognition. Silence that goes against its purpose—it speaks; it’s one of us telling the other that he’s still here, that he understands, and vice versa.

I sneak a look at John. He’s staring down at the glass in his worn hands, looking more tired than I’ve ever seen before. They say time heals all wounds, but not for John Watson.

“I don’t think he knew,” John says suddenly, breaking the quiet, “He . . . he was my best friend, and I don't think he ever knew . . . “ He trails off.

People get lonely, I think to myself as I reach into my coat pocket for my mobile. People surprise you in how funny they are, how strange, and sometimes in how very, very lonely they are.

I say, “I think he knew,” and pull up The Infamous Video I haven’t been able to bring myself to look at since Sherlock’s death. I press ‘play’.

The (very rare) sound of Sherlock’s chuckle fills the place immediately. John’s gaze peels away from his near empty drink to the small screen of my mobile, and there he is. Sherlock. Like he’d never gone away.

 _“John. John-john-john d’you know how bloody_ fantastic _you really are?”_

_“Oh, Christ . . .”_

I watch John. His face screws up like he’s about to cry, but he soldiers on like always, his eyes unmoving.

My voice, now, from behind the screen: _“What will you do, Sherlock, if I show this to the entirety of Scotland Yard?”_

 _“To hell with you and Scotland Yard, Lestrade,”_ is what I think Sherlock says, but he’s slurring a lot. The next bit, though, is clear: _“I suspect John wouldn’t let you, anyhow. Right, John?”_ And he tightens his grip around John’s shoulders, looks up at him in this oddly affectionate sort of way (odd for him, anyhow). _“Lost without m’blogger. John’s fantastic, Lestrade.”_

 _“Yeah?”_ I chuckle.

 _“He’s ordinary and wonderful and fantastic. Of course he’s not—“_ A pause as he leans in very seriously toward the camera, blinking rapidly. _“—As smart as I am. Naturally. But he’s more brilliant than every one of you lot at Scotland Yard put together . . . “_

We both watch the screen. Two lonely men at the pub, immersed in the memory of our friend. We watch Sherlock trail off into some rambling or another, and I can’t help but notice the look of sheer sheepish glee on John’s face in the video, a bit blurred in the background but there all the same.

The video cuts off, and I look at John again. His eyes are red.

“He'd been drugged with who-the-hell-knows-what that night,” he says hoarsely.

I nod. “Yeah. But that didn’t make him any less _Sherlock_. Just made him a bit more . . . open?” I can’t help but chuckle a little, and John forces a smile. “Point is, I think he understood, y'know. How important you were to him. You two were . . . Y’know, he didn’t have friends before he met you. Not one, as far as I knew.”

John swallows hard and finally meets my gaze. “He wasn’t a liar, Greg. I believe that. Soon everyone will believe it. They’ve got to.”

There’s a surge of something like inspiration in me then, something making me want to keep going, something that’s been there under the surface all along just waiting. 'Cause the fact is, even after all that's happened, John still believes in Sherlock Holmes.

Maybe everything’s gone to shite for now, but it’s times like these-—people like John who remind me why I wanted to do all this.

People. People surprise you. People are surprising and funny and lonely and occasionally, brilliantly hopeful.

I raise my glass, clink it against John’s.

Hope.

I’ll drink to that.


End file.
